News at Eleven: Sixty years after the swing, a lofty half-dead tree

drops branches on the grass. I call tree people
to tear out dead limbs for next year's sake,
fearing the wind and ice storms of winter,
dreading broken trees, and bones, and cities.

Hall and the maple and the fate of the world converge in this poem. In its last sentence his fears for the sick tree become his fears for himself and for civilization.

from St. Petersburg Times: The poet . . .

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